


Honor

by ghostofgatsby



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Gen, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-05-31 17:11:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6478954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofgatsby/pseuds/ghostofgatsby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He told them he'd be honored to serve his country. He took the obligation up because he felt it was his duty. If he wasn't destined to be a hero, he wouldn't have been called to do this- or so he thought, when he first arrived in this violent land.<br/>But honor is a high price to pay for the things war leaves you with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honor

**Author's Note:**

> hon·or  
> /ˈänər/  
> verb  
> 1\. to regard with great respect.  
> 2\. to fulfill (an obligation) or keep (an agreement).
> 
> Definition from Oxford Dictionaries.
> 
> This is rather roughly done, very short, and a bit different. Somewhat dark, too, and this fic scares me, to be honest. Because this is reality for some people.  
> My opinions are my own in this. The military is never something I’ve been interested in for myself. But my immense respect goes to those who go.  
> If it was me...  
> ...I just don’t know.
> 
> cw: War, and everything that goes with it. Mentions of guns, bombs, blood, death, drinking, PTSD, nightmares.  
> If I need to tag anything else, let me know.
> 
> reblog: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2016/04/18/honor-ghostofgatsby

Their vehicle jerks as it hits hole after hole in the desert road. Smith and his squad sit in the back, gritting their eyes in the dim shadows and watching the landscape go by through the gap under the edge of the tarp. Their bodies rock and shake with the motion of their transport.

Smith wishes there was light to see by in their van. Like all their days, this one was tiring, and now he only hopes they can make it back to base before nightfall. The sun is just beginning to set, and it’s still unbearably hot. The heat burns into them even when they’re not in the sunlight.

Smith stares back at his squad. They’re dirty, sweaty, and exhausted. They are soldiers, carrying flags and guns. They are men, women, spouses, parents, siblings, children, lovers, and others.

_Someday, we will be home._ He thinks, reminded of the photo in his pocket. The picture of the three of them is the last they took before he left. It’s folded and creased, stained and sun-damaged from how often he’s held it and longed for those he left behind. He’s not alone in this sentimental item- they all carry so much. And not just their equipment upon their backs.  
From rally point to rally point, they travel. Digging trenches that feel like burial mounds. Observing fellow soldiers and the effect of war on their personalities. Hearing the ever-present haunt of gunfire. Forever thirsty- some for water, some for blood, some for whiskey.

There’s too much sand, and too much tragedy.

They are always tired, and they never dream peacefully. Nightmares are not the only thing in the night, and you learn to keep silent, to keep from screaming. You learn to block it out, but you never forget.

Forgetting isn’t an option.

 

The letters come in the mail at Christmas.

Though it's never quite Christmas anymore, because Christmas used to mean snow and hot chocolate and the warmth of those you care about cuddled close to you.

You don't get that anymore, and no letters come for you.

Save for a "letter to a soldier" from a girl aged twelve.

(One and two, you're one here and there are two you left behind...you've been separated since the draft picked you.)

The girl tells you how glad she is that you're fighting for her country, to keep them safe. How strong you must be. How proud the people are, that you do what they cannot, and how they admire you for your service.

_I look up to people like you. I hope one day I can be as brave as you are._ She writes.

Smith turns away from the child's handwriting and ignores the box of sweets on the table with a pained feeling in his chest.

_What the hell are we even doing here._ He thinks.

Taking points, running reconnaissance, planting detonations to topple organizations. He follows the orders regardless of whether there’s a right or a wrong to it all.

All it is, is war, and who knows if that makes home safe in the end.

This place isn't home. And when he goes back he'll never feel safe again.

 

The flash-bang of grenades and the popping of artillery fire is normality. As rubble crumbles on top of them, he wonders how much longer he will survive attacks like these. He can hear ringing in his ears, and the thumping of his heart in his chest.

Adrenaline pushes Smith past the fear he acts upon, moving, barking orders- it's either do or die out here, and seconds can't be wasted. It all ends in a grave or in a plane. It ends with flags over coffins or a badge pinned to his uniform. Or both.

He told them he'd be honored to serve his country. He took the obligation up because he felt it was his duty. If he wasn't destined to be a hero, he wouldn't have been called to do this.  
That’s what he thought, when he first arrived in this violent land.

But honor is a high price to pay for the things war leaves you with.


End file.
